


Out of the Mouths of Babes (with the help of a meddling wizard)

by Rori_Teagan



Category: The Hobbit (1977), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baby Hobbits Are Smarter Than Everybody, Dwobbits, Everybody Lives, Fast And Loose With Cannon Dates, Letting Go So The Beautiful Hobbit-shaped Butterfly Might Someday Return, M/M, Oblivious, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thorin Being All Paternal, True Love, Unrequited Love Only Not That's Just What They Think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the hobbitkink meme because I have baby!fever and Hobbitlings are the cutest. </p>
<p>Prompt: "In which Gandalf informs everyone that infant Frodo thinks of them as 'Thorin', 'Not Thorin', and 'Also Not Thorin', and the rest as 'peasants'"</p>
<p>amillien2one.wordpress.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Dust Settles

The moment he’d set eyes on their Hobbit – though he hadn’t been _their_ Hobbit back then, not yet – Thorin had known the soft little creature was going to be more trouble than he was worth.

It was with both a mixture of dread and relief that he was proven wrong time and again. There was strength in that body - of mind and will, courage enough for a thousand Dwarrows and cunning to match the fiercest warrior. And now, after their adventure was finally done, Bilbo Baggins was through no stretch of the imagination as soft as he’d begun. Time and travel had been quick to rectify a lifetime of food enough and peaceful abundance. And more, he was worth every last bit of trouble. Every moment of spine-chilling terror (as he spun down a rocky hillside, or lay suspended in the air between two vicious flesh-eating trolls, or dangled by one hand over the side of a cliff) was paid back in full, every life-saving lesson embedded in a tongue-lashing he returned with haughty disregard and pompous fare thee wells were trumped by stunningly idiotic moments of sheer courage, loyalty, honor. He was an equal to them all though lither in build. And yet that first flash of fear pervaded.

The world was a cruel place that would just as soon slice you off at the knees as let you pass unscathed. Thorin had learned that long before the fall of Erebor, long before he’d earned his accolades as Oakenshield – and what he wouldn’t have given to forget that most terrible of days instead of carrying it around embedded in his very self.

It was a lesson not easily received and never forgotten. He would spare their Hobbit that education if he could.

He feared it was already too late.

The least he could do was let him go.

“Master Baggins is just about ready, sire.”   

Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgement and sent the messenger on his way with a half-hearted wave of his hand. The lad scampered off with no need to be further persuaded. He was a young Dwarf not yet reached his majority who’d arrived barely a month ago with the fresh flood of eager Dwarrows come to seek their fortune in the newly reclaimed kingdom of Erebor. He hadn’t even been a twinkling in his dam’s eye when that damned blight Smaug had ascended. It said a legion of things about the state of Thorin’s mind (and temper) that the company would choose to send a child to impart the news of Bilbo’s imminent departure.   

In all fairness, they’d all tasted the bitter end of his short patience far too often over the last few weeks as Bilbo and Gandalf gathered resources (and strength) to make the journey back to Bag End. He couldn’t exactly blame their hesitance.

Thorin Oakenshield rose to his feet. He reached for his staff even as he checked for Orcrist at his hip. He’d always have something of a limp and it was good that he’d learned how to draw his sword and fight with his non-dominant hand because the other would never be as strong again, but he’d escaped from his nearly fatal foolishness with his life, his kin, his kingdom. That was more than he could ever ask for, more than he deserved really.

After the Battle of the Five Armies – as it was already being dubbed – lives enough had been lost, those who’d escaped unmarred few and far between. And still it was probably less than there would have been had Bilbo not stolen the Arkenstone from him. Bartered away the mountain’s treasure to save her people, a choice Thorin felt in his heart of hearts he would have made himself had he not been afflicted by his bloodline’s dangerous greed and treasure sickness. He’d made many mistakes in his life time but there was none he regretted more than his behavior then. He wouldn’t be making it again.

But that was then, this was now.   

And now, finally, inevitably, their Hobbit would be leaving. Back to the comfortable little Shire and quaint little garden he’d been dreaming of from the very moment he’d agreed to take up the quest of freeing Erebor and returning a nation of Dwarrows to their rightful home.

After going so long without his own, Thorin couldn’t begrudge their Hobbit for seeking his own.  He’d never stand in the way of that. Not that he hadn’t offered. For as long as there was Durin blood on the throne, Bilbo Baggins and his kin would always have hearth and home in the majestic halls of The Lonely Mountain.

He’d more than earned his place among them. To be true, sometimes Thorin wondered if perhaps it was not the other way around and they’d – he’d – yet to earn a place by Bilbo’s side.

The entire company (and onlookers) were already awaiting him on the grassy knoll proper where time and effort would turn it into a formal outpost again and first defense against enemies to Erebor.

Further away, just a tall-man-shaped speck of gray, Gandalf stood on the edges of Mirkwood waiting for Bilbo to bid his goodbyes. The wizard had been a bit cranky as of late and had no more patience for Thorin than Thorin had for him. Just as well.  

Bilbo adjusted the buttons of his jacket and patted at his pockets, fidgeting, nervous. “Well, that’s it then. I guess I’m off.” His mouth formed a smile but it was a mere impression of joy and light, stretched into the shape but with nothing behind it. His eyes flickered everywhere, on everyone at once.

Fíli and Kíli stood stoically even if sunlight revealed their eyes shone just a bit too bright. They flanked Bilbo on either side as they were wont to do since the night they’d jokingly set him after trolls.

Alternately they pulled him into hugs, literally lifting him into the air with his large hairy feet dangling like a helpless babe.

“Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu,” Fíli whispered into the long chestnut curls and unfortunately elven-shaped ears.

Kíli echoed his brother with an utterance of his own and drew him in as well. “Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil.”  

Bilbo embraced them both with equal fervor despite the coil of confusion wrinkling his brow. He didn’t understand their words with his ears but his heart heard their intent. He wouldn’t understand though, would he, Dwarrows were infamously jealous with their selves – their culture and language and treasures kept tight to chest. And this was how a loved one, kin, would be sent off. A foreign race was not meant to understand.  

Thorin’s heart felt heavy, a physical weight bursting against his hardy ribcage.

He came forward as Bilbo was set to the ground, gathered him up before he had a chance to regroup and knocked their heads gently together. He did not pull their Hobbit up as his nephews had, instead he bent low until their heights matched. Their Hobbit did not flinch.

He stayed there longer than he should if he was to voluntarily let go.  Bilbo watched him steadily, boldly, with an inscrutable emotion on that open face that even so Thorin felt echoed in the base of his throat.

They breathed there together and then finally, because he had to, Thorin pulled back.

Thorin brought his hands to Bilbo’s shoulders and held him steady, felt the thrum of nerves in the twitching of his biceps, and the narrowing of that doe-eyed gaze. The last time they’d been this close he’d been on his knees apologizing for the atrocities he’d spouted while in the midst of gold sickness.

Bilbo had helped him to his feet and told him “While I imagine it’s most useful for a King to know when to bend I much prefer you on your feet, if you don’t mind. We all make mistakes, we all get...overwhelmed. I’m glad you’re healthy again.”  

 “Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal,” Thorin whispered into the wind, wished with his heart and mind and soul though he had no right to receive further blessings. “May you travel well, Burglar. Know that you will always have a home here should you need one.”

“Thank you. I –“ their Hobbit swallowed, cleared the thickness from his throat and when he met Thorin’s eyes his own were wet. “I can’t begin to say how much I appreciate that.”  

Thorin leaned back, returned to his post, allowed the other’s their turn for he was just as much their brethren as his own honed in bonds of mithril forged in the inferno of life-or-death.

And then it was done, goodbyes given and the time had come.

All thirteen watched as Bilbo Baggins disappeared into the depths of Mirkwood, Gandalf the Grey leading him further and further away with each step.  

There was a curious tightness of breath that Thorin couldn’t quite massage away as he watched his Hobbit leave.

Well. Nevermind, cracked ribs were always the last to heal.

And after all, he was never meant to stay.

 


	2. Back to the Shire With Every Moment A Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Bilbo arrives back at the Shire, he can't help but feel something's missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all original works here: www.amazon.com/author/simone

Gandalf had said from the very beginning that there’d be no turning back. Oh, not in so many words but Bilbo had known what he’d meant. The wizard was not in a habit of lying to him, omitting pertinent information, yes, but lying was beneath him. It was an important distinction.

And so he hadn’t. Bilbo was indeed changed.

He was not that same respectable Baggins from Bag End from before though perhaps it was hard to tell at a single glance. He was the same stature, and a few decent meals were taking care of the gauntness at his middle and the hollow sort of caving he’d begun to get around his eyes and his cheeks so that now he was quite possibly even healthier, livelier then he’d begun. But there was a wildness to him now, an air of one who’d seen great things, done great things, and lived to tell the tale. But perhaps wasn’t quite ready to yet as the overwhelming magnitude of those acts were still getting processed in his head, instead they filled him up to the brim and gave every word and thought and deed a fierce edge. Once Bilbo had been any Baggins like the rest, folk of the Shire could determine what he’d say before it was said, he was stock and stolid and until his adventure Bilbo didn’t realize just how much he ached bitterly staying that way.

They travelled quickly over the ground previously covered, Gandalf and he. It was almost soothing without the spiders and orcs and trolls, wargs and flying escapes with the Eagles of Manwë (as helpful as that had been Bilbo was in no hurry to repeat the experience) or the ever present thought of a fire-breathing dragon there at the end. He had time to reflect on all the happenings, time to miss the thirteen others he’d gotten to know so well. They stayed the winter with Beorn, some time in Rivendell, over lakes and down meadows. And every step away from Erebor Bilbo felt the change settling over him like a physical thing in his body altering the very core of him.  It shifted his balance as strange as that seemed, he hadn’t the courage to announce his findings aloud no matter how many spiders he’d slay or dragons he faced. But there it was all the same. It made him heavier. And it was with this heaviness that he returned back from whence he came, back to the Shire and the little comfortable hole in The Hill.

Only to find this ugly scene.

“As you can see, I am indeed _not_ dead, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, so if you would ever so kindly _put my things back where you found them_!” Bilbo was quickly losing his temper with this whole ghastly thing.

Gandalf stood silently beside him, shade hat firmly planted on his head and lowered far enough over his eyes that his bushy eyebrows peeked out grandly. Those who did not know him as well as Bilbo did would think him stern and impassive. Bilbo, however, was not fooled. He could detect the amusement the wizard made no attempt to suppress and was not impressed.

An auction indeed and most of his valuables disappearing into the pockets of that –that—

“Thievery is what it is,” Bilbo muttered, stomping fitfully into his hole. He had no patience for the spluttering excuses of his relatives, especially when despite their apologies he’d yet to see a single item make its way back to his shelves.    

He went to wipe his feet on his little door mat only discover that too was missing. Bilbo had been angry in his life, frequently over the last journey, but never before had he literally seen red.

A hand touched his shoulder and Bilbo found himself led to his long table and a cushioned chair - where dwarrows once sat making fun with his mother’s dishes once they’d eaten the contents down clean. Ahh when things were simple.

“Come, my friend, let not the proceedings of duplicitous friends grey your hair before time.” Gandalf’s tone was still entirely too amused for Bilbo’s tastes. “We’ve much bigger things to discuss than these petty little triflings.”

“Petty—little,” Bilbo sputtered. “My things, some of them heirlooms, some I’ve kept safe my entire life, gone just gone into the pockets of that dirty, thieving, conniving – and you say petty little trifling I just –“

A glass of water was pressed into his hand, a firm pat on his back nearly emptying it again on his lap.  

“Mister Baggins, a deep breath, if you please.”

Bilbo took a deep breath and then swallowed down the contents of his cup in a large gulp. He had to admit he did feel better once he was done.  

“Good. Now let’s start again. Your things will be returned. I’ve spoken to your relatives and it is luck that we got back just when we did, they hadn’t gotten far. Nothing is broken, nothing is sullied, and it shall all be returned promptly with utmost haste as I’m sure your relatives know what’s good for them despite their otherwise penchant for foolery. But yes petty triflings. Doilies and dishes and handkerchiefs, I thought we were beyond that, Bilbo.”

And here the wizard sounded a bit melancholy like the thought a Hobbit would begrudge the loss of his comfortable Hobbit-things was disappointing to him. Maybe just this Hobbit. Bilbo mulled it over, empty cup in hand and looked around his emptied hole. All his little nicks and knacks, he’d done without them for over a year and to be honest after the first month or so it was safety he’d missed not any of the actual items. Still, it was the principle of it.

But never mind, he’d nearly missed that troll-sized segue Gandalf had dropped.  

“What bigger things are there to discuss?”  

The wizard lifted a bushy eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Why, your return to Erebor, of course.”

Bilbo blinked at him even as he felt his heart jumpstart. “What in all of Middle Earth are you talking about?”

“You’ve been thinking of it since practically the moment we left.”

“I’ve not,” Bilbo denied. He didn’t know why he bothered; the denial rang false and lay bitter in the air. Gandalf leveled a look at him that said he was wondering the same.

He had. Truthfully he hadn’t entirely wanted to go. Except that’s what was expected, a Hobbit belonged in Hobbiton, Bilbo’s journey was done. He’d fulfilled his quest, helped his friends retrieve their home, and then it was time for him to return to his own.

“It’s just…this is my home.”

That’s all there was to it.

“Is it,” Gandalf questioned with the sort of tone of voice one might use to answer instead of ask. “But is not home where those you care for best reside. It’s not a place of material possessions but instead where a weary soul can lay their head and find kind regard, trust, respect. I’m afraid as we witnessed today you’ll not be finding that here.”  

No. Not ‘Mad Baggins’ a Hobbit of formerly good standing who’d tossed it all on whim, a curious mind and sympathetic heart where common sense and logical should have been instead.  

“How is it that a Hobbit would find that with Dwarrows and not his own kin,” Bilbo mused to himself.  

“How indeed. Sometimes, my dear boy, it is our experiences that shape us and not our blood at all.”

Bilbo heaved a sigh and thunked his glass down on the table. Bilbo stood decisively. He was feeling lighter already and his heart beat strong like it had that morning he’d impulsively ran out of his hole, barely locking the door behind him, to take up with Dwarrows.

“Yes, well, I suppose I should pack this time then.”

Gandalf chuckled. “I’d suggest at least taking a blanket.” The wizard twinkled at him mischievously. “Maybe a handkerchief.”

As luck would have it they’d have to wait. First the rains came without warning and then, consequently, by unfortunate accident there was a funeral to plan. Bilbo had never been sorrier for a delay in his life than the morning he was told about his dear cousin Drogo and his Primula.  

And then, suddenly, Bilbo was the father to an infant fauntling barely old enough to blink his clear blue eyes open and focus in on one face at a time. Not even old enough to recognize the sound of his own name. There was milk to find and infant things to get and a crying baby that wanted his mother’s warm caress but would never again have it. And that was quite a lot to think about. Enough, at least, to distract him from the panging longing in his heart for a friendly face that wouldn’t rob him blind at first provocation.

And...and more than that. Who valued him as a comrade, trusted him with their lives. He quite missed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you to everyone who's commented, bookmarked and kudo-ed. Yes, that's a word now. :) I appreciate it. This fic now has an outline as of yesterday and chapter names! Yay! I hate to make promises because that's always when things turn out horribly wrong but as of this moment I'll be attempting to post every third day (i.e. 2-3 times a week). It was always a bit massive (remember _slow_ burn) but I'll try and get it out as efficiently as I can, rotating povs between Bilbo and Thorin. 
> 
> The first two chapters were introductory, each progressive should be longer and more plot-driven.


	3. Most Important Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On either side of the country, a Hobbit and a Dwarf have important matters on their minds.

Slowly the putrid aroma of dragon was cleansed out of their halls and Erebor breathed back to life. The township of Dale too had blossomed in the short time that passed, citizens no longer fearful of settling, buildings mended and new wares and talents flushed the streets with vibrant, vivacious life. It was good to see. Their relationship was still tentative but with each day slowly the two kingdoms relaxed and bloomed.

Thorin was pleased. His people were safe and happy, his Kingdom was prospering. There was nothing missing, he had done what he had set out to do. There was no cause to feel …unsettled. Perhaps he was just too accustomed to things not going his way, he was waiting for the axe to drop.

It did two moons after their Hobbit had disappeared into the forests of Mirkwood. Though perhaps it was more a dagger, a small sharp one akin to the sort their Hobbit kept with him.

Balin found Thorin over looking the kingdom from the highest reaches, his face was grim.

“If this is about what I think it’s about, I’m neither of the mind nor in possession of the fortitude to discuss it just now,” Thorin greeted before Balin could open his mouth.

If it were anyone else, they’d stutter or sigh and be on their merry way with an “another day then.” And that would be that. It was Balin though and the other dwarf had been with him long enough to no longer get intimidated by Thorin’s gruff forbearance, much was the pity.

Balin snorted indelicately. “Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, lad.”

Thorin crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared off into the night stubbornly.

“You need a mate, Thorin.  A king shares the load of the kingdom with a spouse who understands him and tempers his impetuous decisions with patience, levelheadedness, and diplomacy. You, in particular, could do with a healthy dose from all of those columns, I don’t mind saying.”

One little declaration of eternal vengeance and suddenly he was saddled with the label hot-headed. Balin knew full well those damned elves deserved his wrath.  

Thorin scoffed. It was a regal scoff befitting a king.   “And you wish me to pluck one from the air like so much aluminum from the side of the mountain?”

Balin’s own eyes narrowed and his tone was half a shade off from a grumbling reprimand. “I want you to at least begin considering candidates.”

He went on, cutting through Thorin’s automatic protest by raising his voice and steadily overwhelming him with the truth. “There is weakness in your line, you know it better than I. You’ve felt the effects of such not too long ago. Your grandfather did not begin to succumb until his wife was gone to the Halls of our forefathers. Your father too did not begin to feel the tugging of the sickness until he no longer had those he loved above all else. When his children could fend for themselves and no longer needed the sheltering hand of their father, then he too began to fold under a thirst too great to quench. You know it, Thorin. You’ve been there. I do not wish to see you taken again.”

And he was right, they both knew it. He had many regrets in his life, Thorin did, but none so great as his actions during those mad moments of sickness. Everything he’d ever stood for, fought for, bled and wept and killed for, made mockery of by his own hand for the sake of tattered pride and gold greed. Nay, he didn’t protest. Balin’s advice was sound and his worry came from lessons learned and best not re-experienced. Still.

More dwarrows arrived every day of every build and talent and ilk, and yet there was none he would have for a spouse. Though it had become increasingly rare for partnerships to be forged of love and fond regard - as much luxuries and pleasures fall out of practice when a people are driven out of their home and forced to wander, relying on the triflingly scraps and random pity of others or their own united bonds- he would see the practice begin again. No longer will marriage need to be an agreement of collaborated resources and safety.

He did not wish it for his people, nor did he wish it for himself. Thorin will not marry any he cannot give his heart to. The line of Durin never had, and if he had any power as King Under the Mountain, it never will.

There was someone out there for him, be it lad or lass, and when he found them he will know. Balin’s good advice will just have to wait.

\---

The baby was crying again. It felt like the poor boy had been screaming his lungs out since the moment he’d been placed in Bilbo’s arms with the odd break to fall into restless naps, guzzle down milk, and poop. The last was done frequently, messily, and in a massive quantity Bilbo could not reconcile with the size of the infant. Then it was back to shrieking again.

Bilbo was at his wits end.

Gandalf reclined unhelpfully in Bilbo’s comfortable arm chair (at least two sizes too small for the wizard’s lanky frame), puffing away on his pipe.

Bilbo hushed and soothed and bounced on the balls of his feet in an odd sort of shuffling hop, round and round his smial with the child mewing pitifully in his arms. The second he should stop the child would be at it again, wailing balefully to the heavens, so Bilbo didn’t stop. For hours. He ached miserably. The trek to Erebor had been less taxing on his soles, if not more dangerous for the rest of him.

Oh, there was a reason he’d remained a confirmed bachelor with no wee ones to his name. There was.

 Slowly as if picking through the threads of a unwieldy cloth, Gandalf carefully hinted that it was time for them to go.

At first Bilbo hadn’t the faintest where he was meant to be going, to bed? If he only could, if the child would just settle.

But then pieces of their unfinished conversation came back to him. Oh.

“The road is no place to raise a fauntling,” Bilbo protested. “Look at him, I haven’t had a moments rest and neither has the poor thing. No, I’ll wait until he’s settled first before –“

“And then you’ll wait until he’s walking, and wait until he’s old enough to leave, and wait until the moon moves and the ground shakes and the Shire relocates to where you’re meant to be. Yes, Master Baggins, you shall be waiting indeed.”

Bilbo huffed annoyed and quit his bouncing. Miraculously Frodo continued to doze in a light sleep, only the wavering breath and odd sniffle belaying the hours and hours of screaming that came before. Bilbo cuddled him close and regarded him fretfully. It was a terrible thing to lose both parents so long, he wouldn’t even remember them in the end. He’d have only the stories and remembrances of others to paint pictures of who his parents were. And Bilbo had not been so close as all that to build those for him.

A warm hand engulfed his shoulder.

“The child is grieving, Bilbo,” Gandalf said softly. “He will need time to heal.”

“What do I do?”

“Hold him, Love him, continue on as you have, Master Hobbit.”

“I feel so out of my depth,” Bilbo admitted.

“As every good parent that has gone before you has. Caring for another is not meant to be a comfortable easy thing. In any case we haven’t time or luxury to wait any longer. If you are to be going the time is now. There are urgent matters I still have yet to attend and I would rather see you off to Rivendale before we part.”

“And then?” What were they meant to do then? Live with the elves indefinitely? While Bilbo admired their lands and had had a pleasant stay both times he’d travelled there, he wanted a home for Frodo and himself. Not a pleasant visit that might span decades. Hobbits were meant to grow roots not travel from locale to locale like so much debris in the wind.

“And then we shall see,” the wizard pronounced mysteriously. “These things have a way of working themselves out in the end. In any case, the time has come, my dear Hobbit, pack your things we shall start out by daybreak.”

Gandalf slid warm and weathered hands underneath the softly sighing bundle in Bilbo’s arms, one palm encapsulating Frodo’s tiny head the other arm scooping up the rest of him with the ease of much practice.  Even Bilbo, who’d been raised with a huge family and had much cause to practice caring for his multitude of younger cousins over the years, had been hesitant and awkward holding the tiny fauntling. Hobbit mothers were much too protective of newborns, a Hobbit as young as Frodo should still be holed up in his nursery for another few months yet.

Frodo immediately relaxed into a deep restful sleep in the wizard’s arm and Gandalf retreated back to his armchair peacefully. An annoyed frown flickered over Bilbo’s face, if that was all it took he really could have offered days ago!

But yes, packing. Oh dear, he hoped they wouldn’t be travelling by pony again.

 


	4. Back On The Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and Bilbo put the Shire behind them.

They started off first thing in the morning like Gandalf promised. Bilbo took a moment to look back at his little smial with a fond sort of sadness that said ‘this is it, there’s no going back now.’ He had Frodo to worry over and the trip from the Shire to Erebor was not one done lightly, much-less more than three times in a Hobbit’s life.

Two years ago, less, he wouldn’t have even said once.

 He was such a different Hobbit now. This was for the best. The baby felt light in his arms and there was a giddy spring in his step as they finally turned away.

 “Are ye sure about this, Mister Bilbo? Nothing I can do to change your mind?” Hamfast looked torn to bits. It was clear to him as well that this might as well be the last time they set eyes on the other.

Funny how you didn’t know to miss someone until it was already half past too late. Bilbo clapped a hand on the other Hobbit’s shoulder and shook his head sadly. “Fraid not. You’ve been a good friend all these years, but I’m a different Hobbit now. Adventures do strange things to you.”

Hamfast nodded his head sagely. “For the better I hope.”

“Oh, now and then I think so,” Bilbo responded. “Take care of the place; it’s been good to me.”

Hamfast Gamgee readily agreed and with that they tied up one last loose end.  Lobelia and Otho were going to be livid when they discovered he’d passed on the family home to his ‘gardener’ but they could just go hang themselves. Bilbo had never met a better friend in all of Hobbiton.

Maybe closer ones in the wider world but that was part of the adventure, wasn’t it.  And it was true, he was for the better. He was a better being today than he was safe and comfortable and content a year ago.

Different yes, but more willing to take chances. Like raise an orphaned fauntling without the slightest experience or support. If Frodo had come to him prior to his Adventure, he was not for certain he wouldn’t have let another relative have him. Whoever heard of a bachelor raising a faunt?

The baby snuggled deeper into Bilbo’s chest as if he was aware of some of his thoughts and Bilbo held on tighter as well.

A clatter and clank drew him out of his thoughts as Gandalf appeared up the road. The wizard waved cheerfully, travelling hat firmly on head. “Let’s be on our way!”

Gandalf had provided a carriage for them this time around, Bilbo let out a huge sigh of relief the moment he saw it. He was not above a little wheedling to avoid riding a pony again, but he was so happy that it wasn’t needed.

Gandalf helped him clamber up, Frodo tucked safe and tight to his chest, and they really were off once and for all.

The thought of balancing on a pony while caring for a faunt was just this side of frightening and made him a little lightheaded to think about it, to be honest. Of course, this whole trip when he wasn’t excited to be on the road again, the strange grass and the unfamiliar wildflowers wafting their own particular aromas into the air that immediately said they were no longer in the Shire, the clip clop of hooves on dusty gravelly pathways, the way his heart skipped a beat with the wonder of ‘doing’ and ‘going,’ having a purpose that went beyond keeping a smial in the tip top shape like a respectable Hobbit would...

When those thoughts weren’t busy distracting him he felt a little faint. Being a father, travelling with an infant, revisiting those old haunts that had nearly killed him the first time. He had no misconceptions that the way through would be as easy this time as it was on the way back. The heat of summer had faded and the weather was turning cold, time had passed since the Battle of the Five Armies and orcs and wargs and their evil kin would have had a chance to regroup. Most worriedly, Gandalf wouldn’t be with them the whole way, nor would they be surrounded by twelve other, boisterous, fearless bodies. And then, again, because it was an important point worth mentioning again and again and again: there was the fauntling to think of.

Yes, he let himself be distracted or he very would faint.

They didn’t bother stopping at the Green Dragon this time. Gandalf instead kept a steady pace, the pleasant rhythm of chatter from the front as Gandalf talked on about random things, Bilbo kept half an ear to respond with and the rest mused on his own thoughts. They made good time with just two - three of them; the child enjoyed the steady bounce and trot of the carriage and was as quiet as Bilbo had ever known him to be. Most of his days were spent sleeping peacefully so Bilbo, wisely, stocked up on his own sleep while he could.

The nights, they stopped and he did his little Frodo-hop around the fire, bouncing and jiggling him like the carriage would and telling him stories about the first time Bilbo had made this trip.  Gandalf listened on amusedly, adding a fact here or there as needed, as the ponies rested and grazed.

 “So there I was, my boy, caught between the side of a hill and the troll’s smelly backside. My hands were quaking and my knees chattering and I couldn’t for the life of me remember which owl hoot I was meant to call. So I had no choice but to go on, the ponies were counting on me to save them before those horrible beasts ate them for supper. And not a proper supper like you or I might have, oh no, foul meats and rocks pieces and bits of troll bogies, that’s what those three monsters were going to consume…”

Frodo’s eyes grew heavy as he listened to Bilbo patter on, his fluttering heartbeat settled against Bilbo’s chest and slowly the lad fell to sleep. Eat, sleep, cry and poo, that’s what little fauntlings do. A silly little rhyme from his youth. Bilbo settled next to Gandalf and stretched out his legs, suddenly in a somber mood.

 “What if he misses other Hobbits? What if I’m denying him his heritage?” Bilbo blurted quietly when he could take no more of the thoughts racing around and around his head.

Gandalf hurumphed softly, making faint shapes from his pipe smoke, shadows from the flickering firelight dancing across his face and obscuring his expression. “I think that’s a chance you’ll have to take and a problem you’ll have to find the solution for if it presents itself. When it comes to raising a child, none of us come prepared with a guidebook. But I would wager to say there is much to be said for the healing properties of surrounding oneself with the people who will love us to the end of our days, whatever our faults or proclivities. Would you raise him as the son of that ‘Mad Baggins’ instead?”  

“No," Bilbo admitted. “I wouldn’t wish that for him.”

“No,” Gandalf repeated and there was a soft trill of satisfaction there. “Neither should you deny yourself love. Frodo will need to see that mirrored as well.”

Well, wasn’t that a funny way to put it.  Yes, of course, he did…love those twelve in his own way. They had become his comrades, his friends, his family and he missed the easy way they had with each other during the good times, the fun and laughter and the understanding that was afforded him even when cultural clash was so vivid that there were no stranger beings pushed together than a Hobbit and a Dwarf. They weren’t forgiving or easy in the common sense, but in ways that sometimes Hobbits tended to forget they knew how to shove away the trivialities to get down to the important bits. Dwalin’s fierce loyalty, Kili and Fili’s brotherhood and love of life and laughter, Dori and Nori and Ori’s regard for each other and those they pulled into the circle of their family, Oin and Gloin and their trustworthiness, always dependable, Bofur’s friendship easily extended and understanding readily given, Bombur’s easy-going spirit never ruffled never riled, Bifur’s patience for a little Hobbit who couldn’t understand a word of anything he said, Balin’s wisdom. And Thorin, the King Under the Mountain who never once forgot his people’s struggles no matter how many sacrifices he shouldered or crosses he bore. By the end they’d become his family and that was something, both Hobbits and Dwarrows could agree, who’s value was without compare. Yes, he guessed he did love them then.

“Alright, my boy, big day ahead. I suggest you turn in while the child lets you.” Gandalf put out his arms for Bilbo to lay the fauntling in. He did so, pressing first a kiss onto Frodo’s brow. A smile twitched at his lips when Gandalf adjusted the babe close to him. It never got old, this powerful wizard cuddling close a tiny Hobbit infant in his Man-sized arms.  

Bilbo retired to his bedroll, thoughts full of nights spent under the stars, the sound of Dwarrow snores bellowing in his ears. It would be nice to see them again, to raise Frodo amongst friends. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been since his parents passed until suddenly he wasn’t. It had taken some time for them to adjust to him, and he to them if all things were told fair, but maybe the work they put into it to keep the group a working unit had forged them into a new little family in its own way. Or maybe Bilbo was just a silly little Hobbit homesick for a kind ear that wouldn’t look at him strange for out of the blue following his Tookish ancestors in their spirit for gallivanting.

 Although, if he really considered it, it was more the Baggins side than anything. What had led him out his quiet, safe, little green door back then and led him right back out again now, hadn’t been a love for adventure. It had been more about belonging in the end. Cherishing and safeguarding what meant most in this world. First for them, now for him and Frodo.

Oh, Yavanna, he was a father, he had a son.

And that was entirely enough thinking for one night.

Bilbo closed his eyes and drifted off. In the morning he didn’t remember his dreams but there was a peaceful smile gracing his face and a warm feeling in the depths of him that managed to stay for a good long while. The first snows didn’t fall until the day they reached Rivendell.


	5. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone, it’s been such a really long time. I’m so sorry. I have a good excuse though. For the last year (almost) I’ve lost a fiancé, gained a child (well…she’ll be arriving in the next few weeks) and been fighting for the right to adopt an amazing little three year old. Right now I’m 15 thousand dollars away from bringing him home permanently. I’m raising funds through my shorts and full length novels (both original works and Sherlock Holmes/John Watson) I’m also offering custom made work. For more information or to assist go here: amillien2one.wordpress.com 
> 
> Otherwise, onwards to the story! Now complete, I’ll be uploading a chapter a week.

The third time Bilbo Baggins entered the last Homely Home was not nearly as auspicious as his first two occasions.

Firstly, Bilbo was unconscious for a goodly part of the initial greetings, Frodo snuggled into his arms, and he didn’t wake-up until well in the night. In a strange room, in a strange bed.

The world was silent around him except for that distinctive hum of ‘comfort-safe’ resiliency Rivendell always thrums in his blood.  It was that recognition, instantaneous and unwavering, that kept him from shouting the walls down and disturbing the still slumbering fauntling. He was in an unfamiliar room surrounded by unfamiliar things ( with not even the comfort of Sting at his disposal as last he’d seen it it was still buried underneath the myriad of other items Bilbo had packed from Bag End) and Gandalf, as he usually is at the most inconvenient of times though never when you most desperately need him, is nowhere to be found. But the last Homely Home hummed to him and his babe was snug and warm and perfectly safe and the last few years have been ever so _exhausting…_

And so Bilbo slipped back off to sleep with no more consideration given to his environment than one long groggy look around, eyelids barely cracked.

The next morning he was rested enough to be embarrassed. He could perhaps be forgiven for his unseemly arrival the first time, and truly the stench of his traveling companions (through no fault of their own) quite overwhelmed Bilbo’s own…particular road-earned fragrance. And the second time was on the tail end of the adventure of his life. But there was no excusing bad manners a third time, especially when the only thing pressing down currently was the weight of parenthood. Trolls, Orcs and a massacre masquerading as battle– surely Bilbo could handle a fauntling and manners at the same time.

There was an extra change of clothing laid out on the bed – Bilbo’s clothes and it was obvious someone had gone rifling through his bags. He squashed the faint stirrings of irritation, he highly doubted the Elves have gone through his things with the same intentions as his thieving relatives. Besides, his most precious belongings were lying right there on the bed and right there in his pocket.

Bilbo patted his vest pocket comfortingly and turned his attention to tidying himself up while Frodo blinked sleepily awake, giant blue orbs much too big for the child’s face, gazing adoringly up at Bilbo from the soft nest of blankets.

“Hullo there, sweetling,” Bilbo cooed to him. Frodo surprised him with a burble back, legs and arms waving wildly in the air at him.

It was very sweet and adorable and so much easier on the nerves than the constant shrieking.

Frodo needed a change and Bilbo will have to warm some milk for breakfast which means he’ll need to go on a hunt for the kitchens but otherwise a deep sense of contentment mingled with eager anticipation burns low in his belly like it hasn’t in…well, an awful long time.

He discarded the mess Frodo made and wrapped a clean cloth around the child’s lower-half and stuck a rubber sucker between pouting cupid-bow lips.

The baby sucked languidly at the sucker and grasps gently at the curls at the nape of Bilbo’s neck when he’s raised to Bilbo’s shoulder.

Content, warm, peaceful, Bilbo breathed in the soft scent of happy fauntling.

There was a knock on the door just as Bilbo was deciding the polite way of barreling through Rivendell’s halls unescorted.

“Good morning,” he called moments before the door crept open by the tiniest slivers and a voice intoned warily,

“And to you. I’ve come to escort you to breakfast. At your leisure, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo blinked several times, and wondered if Elves shared a wizard’s knack for mindreading. And then the door was closing back and Bilbo was gathering his things and rushing out after the unfamiliar voice.

“Yes, yes, of course. Coming!”                                                      

\---

Thorin looked out the window, the dominant feature in the private hall they’d been using to take all meals for the past few months. Primarily it was meant for the royal family as well as private guards and advisors but the Company came and went as they pleased though as time wore on, more often than not they pleased less and less frequently, preferring to spend their meals with their own growing families.

There were three upcoming bonding ceremonies, Bombur was working on his next newest arrival, and if Dori ever allowed Ori space to breathe there’d be a fourth Ri brother before the end of the year. Or even if he didn’t, perhaps. The lad had grown increasingly independent.

Balin had all the romantic entanglements his heart could desire and enough bonding ceremonies to satisfy anyone. If only that were enough to keep him from shoving every unattached dwarf in Thorin’s direction.

Outside the sky was overcast. Snow had already fallen and the mountain was coated in layers of ice. Thorin  moved his food around his plate absently and watched the winter descend upon the world.

To his right, Fili was lingering longer than usual. Balin and Dwalin had come and gone, and Kili hadn’t yet made his stumbling way in – half-asleep. On typical mornings Thorin would bide his time with his own meal, stretching it out so that he could enjoy it with both nephews despite their opposing schedules. Despite what else went on in the kingdom, he allowed himself this. When Bilbo was here he’d fallen into Thorin’s same pattern and often they’d while away a few hours before Erebor properly woke simply waiting together. It was …pleasant.                                                                             

“You’ve got that look on your face, Uncle,” Fili chided, softly amused. It was a tone he hadn’t heard in far too long. Always the more serious, level headed of his two nephews – thank Mahal or else Erebor was doomed and so soon after rescue – Fili had been positively somber the last few months.

War scarred in many ways besides flesh wounds; Thorin called it a mercy if all Fili should lose was a bit of his good humor. Thorin missed it all the same; cherished every moment of levity, every flash of soft concern, or gentle return of the bright eyed, mischievous waif that had joined his Company.

“Oh, and what look is that?”

“The one that says you’re thinking about our Hobbit again and wondering what his fussy little self is getting up to at precisely this moment. And if perhaps he’s managing through alright.”

Thorin allowed an eyebrow to rise in eloquent response. In point of fact, he had been thinking about Bilbo. He wasn’t aware there was a particular look that went along with his thoughts, however.

“I’ve gotten familiar with that look during your convalescence. It was always followed with a demand to ‘stop hovering around like useless lumps and attend to the Master Baggin’s needs’ and a lecture about how Hobbits – soft, fragile creatures that they are – are not Dwarrows born and bred from stone.”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “I’ve not once referred to Hobbits as ‘soft, fragile creatures,’ “

“No?” Fili hummed thoughtfully. “No, you’re right, you haven’t. Not aloud. Not since the very beginning anyway. Still, the way you coddled him right at the end, the message was the same.”

There was a little smirk tickling at the end of Fili’s expression like it fluctuated and waved beneath his beard and mustache for some signal from Thorin to break free. Thorin forced his tense shoulders to relax and his curled fist to spread wide against his thigh. It was a relief to see Fili teasing again, it truly was, whether he had the misfortune to be the butt of it or not.

“Extra blankets, the softest linens, the larger rations, nothing but the finest for our Burglar.”

“And was I wrong? Did he not deserve all that and more? Had he not proven himself, his dedication, his loyalty, his heart, a thousand times over? Had he not honored his contract and then gone above and beyond all written obligations?” His voice grew gruff towards the end and his back sore from forcibly relaxing the muscles.

“No, you’re quite right, Uncle. I’m only saying…you have that look about you.”  The smirk flickered away and Fili was somber again, thoughtful. “Truth is, you have that look about you all the time, these days.”

There was nothing to say in answer to that, so Thorin said nothing. The silence was thick but not uncomfortable. And then Fili sighed and somber was _morose_.

“You miss him,” Fili said tentatively, a bare breath on the air.      

The urge to pretend he hadn’t heard him at all was attractive. But then Thorin was a King now. He didn’t have the luxury of pretense. “A Hobbit’s place is with his people. Just as a Dwarf’s is with Dwarrows.”

Fili pushed up from the table, clapped a hand to Thorin’s shoulder as he passed, soft, commiserating.

“Yeah,” he said, “me too.”

\---

Over breakfast Bilbo was requested to sit at Lord Elrond’s table and introductions were made. He stumbled a little over “This is Frodo…m-my son” but the words would soon grow comfortable, he could feel it. He’d be the only parent the boy would know, after all, it was best to accept that and be as natural with it as quickly as possible. If only for the lad’s sake. Though, increasingly, Bilbo thought for his own sake as well because though he’d never expected to be anyone’s father…it was sinking into his bones as natural to him as elevensies. He’d fed the babe and then accepted the requests to hold him, and though his skin was itching from all the hands that had passed the faunt around the table, cooing and humming to him, there was a swell of pride in his chest he didn’t bother to shove away. Frodo was tiny in their hands but clearly cautiously delighted with all the attention.

He was returned eventually and fell promptly asleep in the crook of Bilbo’s arm, pressed warm and safe to his chest. His black curls tumbled around his forehead and tiny little ears, already grown long enough to cut though custom would keep it long until his second birthday.

He wondered what his dwarves would say about a hobbit with hair of ‘a respectable length,’ and chuckled to himself.

Lord Elrond returned the smile knowingly. Wizards and Elves – they couldn’t just let you believe you were the only one to know your own thoughts. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like,” Lord Elrond offered again. “It’s been many years since we were blessed with the presence of a young one about.”

“Yes, I know, you all only want me for my child.” And there, look, easier all the time.

Lord Elrond chuckled. “He’s such a delightful child.”

“My pride and joy,” Bilbo admitted. “I appreciate your offer, it’s very kind, my lord. At any other time I’d like nothing more than to settle down here but…”

He trailed off as he felt his eyes glazing over, thoughts turned to majestic climbing mountains ascending to the skies. So very different from the rolling hills and valleys flush with life in Hobbiton.

“But your heart has been captured elsewhere,” agreed amiably.  

What a funny way to put it. And yet…accurate. Bilbo blinked and returned.

“I understand. The offer is made, however, and you’re welcome to stay for as long as it takes to prepare for the second half of your journey. Traveling this time of year is inadvisable at best, but all the more harrowing with just an infant for company.”

Bilbo paused. He felt it, every thought and emotion in his body freezing. No. That couldn’t possibly mean what Bilbo thought it to mean.

“Pardon?”

There was no way that meant with Bilbo thought it meant. Nope.

Lord Elrond considered him carefully. “Gandalf left not long after you arrived, Bilbo. I thought you knew, he said you’d agreed he was only to assist with your arrival here.”

“WHAT?!?”

Startled, Frodo woke and began to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Point 1) I'm mixing timelines and changing dates at will. Please just go with me, I promise if you pretend there's no chronological guideline you won't get confused. :) 
> 
> 2) My head-cannon views Thorin as very goal oriented and focused, he's lived a tough life and thinks the sharper you are the better chance you have at surviving. It's not so much that he initially hates Bilbo, he just refuses to put hope and faith and fond feelings into someone who is living on borrowed time - in his opinion.
> 
> 3) This is a slow burn. Sloooow burn. First they have to be in the same location, right? Also, I can't stand (i.e. it makes me very sad) when you sit through a whole story and they kiss all the way at the end. What?1?! So there will be many fluffy loveydovey times before we get to closing scenes. Just...not for awhile.
> 
> 4) Khuzdul to English Translation: Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu - May Mahal's hammer shield you. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil - I wish you a safe journey. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal.


End file.
